


gallery of the heart

by ride_the_dinos



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Artist Steve Rogers, Avengers Family, Character Study, Domestic Avengers, Drabble, Gen, I miss 2012 fandom Avengers, M/M, Protective Steve Rogers, no editing me die like mne, no one look at me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 00:22:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29304936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ride_the_dinos/pseuds/ride_the_dinos
Summary: Where the world saw shiny costumes and idols to be worshipped, Steve was able to witness their flaws and warm realities. The world might worship the heroes but Steve… Steve worshipped their humanity.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers & Avengers Team, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov
Comments: 6
Kudos: 25





	gallery of the heart

Bucky is staring at him, expression sharp.

Steve chuckles nervously, "what?"

"Your eyes could kill a man, Steven Grant Rogers," he declares.

Steve huffs in amusement, "what are y-"

"They did,” Natasha proclaims from the dining table, "back in Maine at that crusty hydra base ‘member? The guy looked at him for a couple seconds, then just...dropped dead."

Bucky nods seriously and sits back as if she’s proven a point. 

Steve just rolls his eyes, "Pretty sure that was the cyanide."

She shoots Bucky a knowing look and returns her attention to her tablet. Bucky nestles deeper into the corner of the couch, strong legs stretching across Steve’s lap- upon which the man’s sketchbook is balanced. 

Tony had gifted Steve with handmade art supplies from a village smaller than a pinprick on Europe’s map, and he’d been waiting for the perfect opportunity to break them in. Steve had taken one look at his boyfriend’s scruffy head and tired eyes and slipped into place with a worn leather sketchbook in hand, capturing the morning light and lazy attitude crossing the brunette’s face with a few strokes of fresh  conté  stubs. 

Most of Steve’s sketchbooks were filled with drawings of his teammates. Where the world saw shiny costumes and idols to be worshipped, Steve was able to witness their flaws and warm realities. The world might worship the heroes but Steve… Steve worshipped their humanity. 

Pages overflowed with sketches of calloused hands holding pop-tarts, smaller hands holding knives and curled into blankets. Crooked shirt collars shadowing scarred collar bones, mismatched socks and untied sneakers. Dark circles cradling bright eyes, exhaustion in the crinkles at the corners. Sometimes the crinkles were caught up in a laugh, or a knowing grin, all outlined in stark scratches of charcoal on smudged paper.

Some pages held roughly scrawled out details Steve had noticed in the way someone talked or sounded. Or an idea that someone had inspired with their old stories. Or terribly executed and 90% made-up song lyrics. Or something someone mentioned that he wanted to remember later- all things that he would flip back to to muse over or add to one of his drawings.

Of course, these days one could find his sketchbooks filled with intimately detailed pieces of Mr. James Buchanan Barnes, paralleling another life in another  _ era _ , when Steve couldn’t actually  _ afford  _ an actual sketchbook. 

As much as Steve cherished these notebooks, these memories etched in ink, it couldn’t come  _ close _ to the way he felt about their subjects. His hands could never emulate the life and energy his team graces him with every day. Sure, it can be overwhelming. Especially when Tony is thrown into the mix. Or when Clint feels antsy and homesick for the road. Or when Thor is discovering yet another mind-boggling feature of this mediocre mortal realm. Or, well, you get the picture. 

Steve stuffs it  _ all _ into the thick pages of his sketchbooks. 

He gets to see a side of these people that no one in the entire world gets to witness, and he does his best to capture those moments with scarred hands permanently stained with blood and charcoal. 

Bucky falls asleep on his lap minutes after settling in, sunlight from the open window soft against his stubble-rough cheeks. 

Steve smiles and gets to work. 

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this like three years ago its been sitting in my drive collecting dust lmao


End file.
